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The Man Who Lives with Wolves
Shaun Ellis
To wolf expert, Shaun Ellis, wolves aren’t just his work, they’re also his family. An extraordinary man, Shaun has been fascinated by wolves all his life, living as part of their pack for two years with no human contact. What he gained was a unique and fascinating insight into their world, and that of our very own domestic dogs.Shaun Ellis grew up in the Norfolk countryside with a passion for and understanding with animals from an early age. His early fascination with wolves, and determination to understand them, led to him spending years in the US with the Naz Paz Indian tribe, watching wolves, learning to understand their roles and behaviour in the pack and how to communicate with them. He even lived as part of a wild pack for two years, without any human contact. Bringing his knowledge back to the UK, he astonished wildlife experts with his knowledge and insight. He now lives, eats and sleeps with his two wolf packs at Combe Martin Wildlife Park. This is the story of Shaun’s determination to understand these extraordinary animals and how what he has learned can help others to understand their own domestic dogs.
THE MAN WHO
LIVES WITH
WOLVES
SHAUN ELLIS
WITH PENNY JUNOR
HarperCollins Publishers
I would like to dedicate this book to the memory of my grandfather, Gordon Ellis. Thank you, Old Man, for your patient teaching; your wisdom and knowledge is with me wherever I go. I was once told by my brother Levi’s people, the Nez Percé, that someone only dies if you forget them. You will be in my thoughts forever.
Contents
Cover (#uf2e5031d-9e6c-5ed9-af52-f9df69cdef1f)
Title Page (#uaaa6cba5-efa0-57db-8cd0-c7d4f2449ac9)
Dedication (#u3e48c3f2-e0a6-5aed-ac4c-355189287369)
Author’s Note (#u60825df4-972a-5896-b466-739f5737278a)
Preface—Touching a Nerve (#u9c62a6e3-fd47-543c-a3e3-ede160efc37e)
Chapter One—A Special Relationship (#u381e029c-a63a-5d1a-aad8-e4fdfc4823d2)
Chapter Two—A Childhood in Rural Norfolk (#u16fd034d-3f79-571f-8380-29d475c92006)
Chapter Three—A Wolf at the Window (#ufe230e40-d5e3-5c08-8a8b-85206686e9eb)
Chapter Four—A Misspent Youth (#u213844f3-58f2-59ad-872f-cfdc5650dc89)
Chapter Five—For Queen and Country (#u9127fc38-d3dd-5c54-b68c-6c1f099de167)
Chapter Six—Up Close and Personal (#u41cf645a-d3e0-504c-8446-4d71dd3e8778)
Chapter Seven—A Question of Morality (#u7def7914-3c5f-55c3-8d1d-2d42e142f518)
Chapter Eight—A Ticket to a New Life (#uc1bbde56-e84a-5705-906d-4132696e1895)
Chapter Nine—Found Out (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten—Earning a Crust (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven—The Call of the Wild (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve—A Waiting Game (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen—Worth the Wait (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen—The Patter of Tiny Feet (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen—A Narrow Escape (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen—Another Way (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen—The Proof of the Pudding… (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen—Divided Loyalty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen—Finding a Home (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty—Poland (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-one—Making Contact (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-two—A Harsh Lesson (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-three—We Are What We Eat (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-four—Knowing Your Place (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-five—Back to Basics (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-six—Family Values (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-seven—A Life Apart (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-eight—A Curious Coincidence (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-nine—A Soul Mate (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty—The Miracle That Is the Wolf (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-one—Pushing the Boundaries (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-two—Breakdown (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-three—I Have a Dream (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Index (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#u10581a5d-8ec5-55db-94d3-cda9ce666686)
When you are living with wolves, all that matters is staying alive and protecting the pack; days slip into weeks, weeks into years. Time, as we know it, has no relevance and I want to apologize in advance if I am a little fuzzy about dates and times. I have never kept a diary, never been a letter writer, and have never hung on to anything. For much of my life I have lived out of a rucksack so have very few possessions of any sort. There is very little, therefore, to remind me about when the various events that took place in my life actually happened. If I have attributed something to the wrong year, please bear with me. The events themselves I remember as if they were yesterday.
PREFACE (#u10581a5d-8ec5-55db-94d3-cda9ce666686)
Touching a Nerve (#u10581a5d-8ec5-55db-94d3-cda9ce666686)
I was helping out at a wildlife center in Hertfordshire, one of the home counties, just north of London. A man appeared outside the wolf enclosure one day, pushing a child in an old-fashioned wheelchair that looked almost Victorian, with a large rectangular tray on the front of it. I was immediately struck by how out of place it looked. He told me that he and his son, who may have been thirteen or fourteen and who, I could see at a glance, was severely disabled, had driven all the way from Scotland, a distance of around five hundred miles. He had heard that we allowed members of the public to interact with the wolves and he wanted his son to meet one.
I was surprised that this man had gone to such lengths to show his son a wolf. The child didn’t look as though he would get anything out of the encounter. He sat immobile, silent, staring into space, and I doubted that he would even be able to stroke the animal’s fur. Normally, I loved this part of the job. Children arrived with such preconceptions. They pulled back and screamed when the wolf came near, convinced by all the stories they’d read and the cartoons they’d watched, that wolves were sly, vicious creatures that ate grandmothers, blew down the houses of little pigs, and ripped the throats out of little girls. I had grown up with exactly the same terror. It had taken me many years to discover that wolves are actually shy, intelligent animals with a very sophisticated social structure, whose bloodthirsty reputation is not deserved. I found nothing more gratifying than watching children touch the wolves and listen to what I had to tell them about these animals, and watch their prejudice and ignorance fade away.
I felt almost evangelical about this. I thought that if children could feel their coats and look them in the eye, they could make up their own minds about them so that in time, future generations will perhaps be ready to give back to wolves the place in our world that is rightfully theirs.
Once upon a time wolves and men lived alongside one another, each respecting and benefiting from the other’s way of life. Sadly, those days are gone and I believe that we are the poorer for that. The natural balance in nature that they promoted has been whittled away and several species, including our own, have been allowed to go unchecked and become diseased—in the truest sense of the word.
This may be a little fanciful but I believe that as well as healing the natural world and restoring its balance, human society could benefit from having wolves roaming the forests once more. We could learn a lot from the loyalty they display to family members, the way they educate and discipline their young, the way they look after their own, and the circumstances in which they use their considerable weaponry to kill. The world is not yet ready for that but I like to think that in some small way my work of the last twenty years might have begun the process.
Whenever I introduced a child to the wolves, it was vital that the child did not become frightened. I had to watch their reaction carefully so that I didn’t do more harm with this exercise than good.
This boy didn’t speak. His disabilities were clearly mental as well as physical and I guessed he might have been autistic. I could immediately see there would be a problem and asked the father, as tactfully as I could, whether the child would be able to indicate when he no longer wanted to be near the wolf, explaining how important this was. “He won’t be able to,” said the man, bluntly. “He has never spoken, and never reacted in any way to anything. And he has never expressed an emotion in his life.”
Common sense was screaming at me to tell this man to turn around, to take his poor child all the way back to Scotland, but for reasons I can’t explain, and a few I can, I agreed to go ahead.
There was a young wolf called Zarnesti in the enclosure that had been handled a lot in his first few months of life and was perfect, therefore, for introducing to children. His mother had stood on him or rolled on him soon after birth, crushing his jaw. As a result he had been hand reared and was not as nervous around humans as most wolves. I loved him; he had the most wonderful character, but he looked a bit like Goofy, the dog in the Mickey Mouse cartoons.
Questioning my sanity, I went into the enclosure and came out carrying Zarnesti. He was then about three months old, the size of a spaniel and a wriggling, struggling bundle of energy. It was all I could do to hold him; he was almost flying out of my arms as I put him down onto the tray on this old-fashioned wheelchair, in front of the boy. I had the pup in a viselike grip, but something miraculous happened. The moment Zarnesti saw the child he became still. He looked into the boy’s eyes and they stared at each other. Then the pup settled down with his back legs tucked under him and his front legs stretched out in front. I took one hand off him and I realized very quickly that I could take the other hand away, too. After a few moments, still looking into his eyes, the cub reached forward and started to lick the boy’s face. I lunged to intercept him, terrified that Zarnesti would nip the boy’s mouth with his needle-sharp teeth, which is what cubs do to adult wolves when they want them to regurgitate food. But Zarnesti didn’t nip; he just licked, very gently.
The scene was electrifying. As I looked at the boy I saw one single tear welling up in his right eye, then trickle slowly down his cheek. Guessing this had never happened before, I turned to his father. This big, strong, capable Scotsman was standing, watching what was unfolding in front of him, with tears streaming down his face. In a matter of seconds, the wolf cub had gotten through to this boy in a way that no human had managed to do in fourteen years.
CHAPTER ONE (#u10581a5d-8ec5-55db-94d3-cda9ce666686)
A Special Relationship (#u10581a5d-8ec5-55db-94d3-cda9ce666686)
It was early morning. I had crept out of my bed, as I often did as a child, and gone out into the barn where the farm dogs slept, to curl up with them—something to which my kindly grandparents turned a tolerant eye. I was a loner; the dogs were my closest friends and the nearest I had to siblings. I woke up to find the oldest of the dogs standing over me, his head facing the door. When I stirred, he turned to look at me and raised an eyebrow. I could tell immediately that something was wrong. His mouth was open and saliva was dripping from his tongue. The younger dogs were lying curled up by my side, which is where Bess, the oldest, should have been, too. I could hear a great commotion in the yard outside and my grandfather was calling my name. I can’t have been more than six or seven years old, but it’s a memory that has stayed with me, and although I had no notion of it at the time, it was the beginning of a very long journey for me.
Bess had bitten one of the farmhands, whose arm was crudely bandaged with a handkerchief and spots of blood were seeping through the flimsy material. He was complaining bitterly. He had come into the barn to collect a chain saw that was on a shelf above my head, and without warning the dog, who knew him well, had gone for him. Bess wasn’t a vicious dog; he had been on the farm all his life and had never been known to attack before. The man was highly indignant, but my grandfather, a wise and wonderful old man not given to hysteria, soon managed to calm the situation. He had lived in the country alongside animals all his life, as his father had before him, and he knew at once what had happened. My bond with the farm dogs had become so close that Bess, the oldest and most dominant dog, had come to regard me as one of the pack, and a young member at that. When the farmhand burst into the barn, waking Bess and probably the other dogs, too, Bess thought I was in danger and he was protecting me in the only way he knew how, the way that his wild relatives might have protected their young.
My grandfather decided that in the interests of safety it was time to ban my nighttime excursions to the barn, but he recognized that the dogs played such an important part in my well-being that I should be allowed to have one of my own, which could sleep with me in the house.
The dog of a neighboring farmer had had pups and not long after this incident, my grandfather took me to choose one from the litter. We had no car in those days; my grandparents were simple folk who lived from hand to mouth. A lot of what we ate came from the wild. We would shoot rabbits, hares, pigeons, and pheasants but I was always taught to hunt in moderation, to respect nature and never to take more than we needed or more than the population could sustain. Whenever I made a kill, I knew to cut the animal open lengthways to remove the innards and throw them into the hedgerow for other creatures to scavenge. I had no qualms about killing or skinning rabbits and hares to prepare them for the pot. Life and death were all part of the natural world and on the farm we were very much a part of it.
Although the farmer with the puppies was a neighbor, the definition of neighbor in our world was someone who lived within a day’s walk, and we set off right after an early breakfast, when it was barely light. It was a cold morning; I could see my breath in the frosty air, and I had on a warm coat and boots. Over my shoulder was a poacher’s bag that carried cold tea and thick cheese sandwiches that my grandmother had made for us. I was used to long walks—I often accompanied my grandfather when he went to pay his respects or do business with neighboring farmers—and I used to relish time spent alone with him. There were no other children around the farm for me to play with, no television, no video games or any of the other things that keep children amused these days. We were miles from anywhere; there was just me and my grandparents, the dogs and the farm animals. Occasionally—or so it seemed to me then—my mother would appear, but it was rare and my father was never mentioned.
But I was not unhappy. I adored my grandparents and never thought for a moment that I was missing out. My grandfather and I would take the dogs with us on our walks, and we would never get far before he’d be stopping to point out something of interest. It might be an abandoned nest in the hedgerow—he would tell me all about the birds that had inhabited it, and how many young they would have produced, how far their territory would have extended. He would dissect the nest so I could see the skill with which it had been constructed. He’d spot a broken bird’s egg lying on the ground, and would explain how it might have got there, stolen from the nest by a predator maybe; or he’d pick up an owl’s pellet deposited on a wooden gatepost, and pull it apart, exposing the tiny fragments of bone, all that remained of the rodents the great raptor had feasted on during the night.
He might make me close my eyes and tell him what I could hear; I’d thought it was quiet until my eyes were closed and then there would be such a deafening noise—birds singing and chattering, insects rubbing their legs, small mammals scurrying, even sheep bleating in the distance or a cow coughing three fields away—so many different sounds and songs. Or we’d investigate a rabbit burrow for signs of activity or identify the prints left by deer and other animals on the muddy tracks. He made every outing an adventure, made every discovery exciting. I loved listening to him talk, hearing him explain, in his rich Norfolk accent, which birds preferred which berries, or why foxes killed more than they could eat or carry away; and sometimes, if I asked, he would talk about himself and about his childhood and how different life had been when he was my age, when there were no modern conveniences like refrigerators, tractors, or electricity; when they’d harvested with scythes and milked the cows by hand.
When we’d reach our destination, he would never take me inside with him. He would leave me to wait with the dogs a little way off while he went to see whomever he had come to visit. Sometimes he would be gone for several hours while he and his friend shared a bottle or two of stout, but I had been taught to wait patiently. It would never have crossed my mind to complain; I adored this man and I never questioned his authority, enjoying nothing more than his approval. Besides, I knew that no matter how long he was gone, he would always come back. He would suddenly appear, saying, “Come on then, boy,” and I’d slip my hand into his great rough paw. We’d retrace our steps and find new things to look at and talk about on our way home.
One day we made just such a trip to choose my puppy. My grandfather and the farmer greeted each other warmly, like long-lost friends, and disappeared together into a barn, where mother and pups were kenneled, leaving me alone in the farmyard. “Wait there, boy,” he said. “I won’t be long.” And so without question, despite the excitement and my impatience to see the litter, I found myself a comfortable spot and sat down to wait.
Suddenly I heard the barn door creak as a gust of wind took it, and a large dog escaped through the open gap and came charging toward me, barking ferociously, ears flat against its head. I knew enough to know that this was not a friendly greeting. I sat still, kept my hands by my side, and waited; it didn’t occur to me to be frightened. Bess and the farm dogs had often charged at me and however aggressive they sounded in a pack, I always held my ground and once they had sniffed me, they were never anything but friendly. The dog’s hackles were raised, her tail was erect, and she was growling as she reached me, her teeth bared. I didn’t move. I let her sniff my legs, feet, hands, and head. Soon the growling stopped and I turned my hands over to expose the palms, which smelled of the cheese sandwich I’d eaten during our walk. She licked them and looked up at my face with soft eyes. I started to scratch the long fur under her chin, which she obviously enjoyed because she sat down and leaned her body into mine, allowing me to rub the rest of her silky body.
The barn door creaked again and as my grandfather and the farmer emerged, the dog by my side growled deeply, gave a sharp bark, and charged the two men. I guessed she was the mother of the pups, and from the panic that ensued, I gathered she did not welcome visitors. The farmer shouted angrily at her, “Get in that barn, now!” The dog lowered her body and slunk back toward me. “Keep still, boy,” warned the farmer. “Don’t move and she won’t hurt you.” But as he ran over toward me, yelling at the dog to get back to the barn, it was clear he didn’t trust the animal an inch. By the time he reached me, the dog had tucked her frightened, shaking body into mine and, ignoring his command to stay still, I had started scratching her again while speaking softly to her.
“Well, bless my soul. Come and have a look at this,” said the farmer, cap in his hand as he scratched his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anything like it. No one has ever been able to get near that bitch. The only reason I keep her is because she’s so good with the sheep, but she’s always been a real liability with strangers.”
“Ma always said the boy has some sort of gift with dogs,” said my grandfather, still keeping a safe distance. “She’ll swear he knows what they say.”
Not trusting the dog to remain calm, the farmer shut her up while we went into the barn for me to choose one of the puppies. They were fenced in behind straw bales—five in all, four girls and a boy—curled up in one big bundle of black, brown, and white fur. They were lurchers, a greyhound cross breed, so would be good hunters. I knew I wanted a female; my grandfather had taught me that bitches were far better than dogs at providing for their families, and I wanted this dog to earn her keep.
Tied on the end of a length of bailing twine was a rabbit’s foot that the farmer dangled in front of the bundle while he squeaked as an alarmed rabbit might. Immediately the sleeping pups’ ears went up and they looked around. When they spotted the foot dangling within their reach, they sprang to life and, sure enough, it was the bitches that were there first, two of them ahead of the others. It was one of those two that I chose to take. I picked her up and held her in my arms, and as my grandfather handed over a couple of large bottles of light ale in payment, I could just hear, over the puppy’s frantic licking, the farmer say, “The boy’s right, you know. She’s the one I’d’ve picked.
“Away you go, boy,” said the farmer with a cheery smile. “Take care of her.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, the puppy warm and wriggly in my arms. “I’ll take care of her.”
I named her Whiskey and in the next thirteen years, she scarcely left my side.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_e6cac576-5519-5a00-8079-ae2067bbce19)
A Childhood in Rural Norfolk (#ulink_e6cac576-5519-5a00-8079-ae2067bbce19)
The English countryside is not an obvious place for a child to develop a passion for wolves, and it wasn’t immediate, but animals have been in my life for as long as I can remember.
One summer’s evening my mother came home from work. She had been picking carrots or some other vegetable out of the ground all day and was exhausted. “There’s a job waiting for you in there,” said my grandfather. “Shaun’s been busy again.” She opened the door and recoiled in horror. Frogs were hopping, croaking, and climbing over every surface in the room. I had spent my afternoon collecting them from the pond up the road, steadfastly walking back and forth with a bucket, and the room was alive with frogs. And I spent that evening going back and forth with the bucket once again, putting them all back.
Another time she went into the coal shed, after night had fallen, to get some fuel for the fire and screamed as five black chickens started flapping and squawking. I had found them on my travels across the fields—and the very next morning I was dispatched to take them back.
And then there was the time I brought home a Muscovy duck, complete with its nest filled with eggs. My mother was too scared to touch the duck—an ugly brute, she called it—so I carried the duck under my arm while she carried the nest and the eggs back to the pond, where we reinstated the whole lot among the reeds. My poor mother; I was always giving her heart failure, coming home with some creature that I’d find a home for somewhere about the house.
I grew up on the land and I was fascinated by the natural world. There was no money for outings, treats, or toys when I was a child; the hedgerows, fields, and forests were my playground, and the dogs were my companions. I roamed for hours; I explored the thickets for bird nests, I knew when rabbits had young, I watched hares boxing in the springtime, I knew where to look for fox dens and badger setts. I could recognize owls in flight and knew the difference between kestrels and sparrow hawks. I couldn’t have crossed a busy London street or found my way around a subway at the age of ten—and to be honest, I still feel uneasy in big cities in my forties—but there was not a lot I didn’t know about the wildlife on my doorstep.
My home was north Norfolk, a remote part of a remote county on the most eastern coast of England, famed for its fens, its pheasant shoots, and its flat, fertile farmland. Those who own the land are among the richest in the country; those who work it are some of the poorest. My family was the latter. They were farm laborers and we lived from hand to mouth, a very simple life. We caught what we ate and ate what we caught; and my job as the youngest member of the family—when I was too young for gainful employment—was to catch it, with the dogs we had on the farm. They were my friends, but they were working dogs. Apart from Whiskey, they lived outside in the barn, and I was never allowed to be sentimental about them. In our world, every animal had a purpose. We couldn’t afford to feed any creature that didn’t earn its keep—and Whiskey was a skillful courser.
Our neighbors lived in the same way. Country folk were caring but not sentimental. When I was about eight, I remember going with my grandfather to visit a gamekeeper friend of his. This man had the most beautiful black Labrador. He was the gamekeeper’s pride and joy. His coat glistened and he had the softest mouth; he could pick up an egg or anything else he was asked to retrieve without leaving a mark on it. He was immaculately trained; he seemed to know this man’s every thought. One day the man discovered that his two sons had taken the dog ratting in the barn, and all the work and training that he had so patiently done with the dog was lost in less than a morning. The first time the Lab went for a rat, the rat bit him on the muzzle and he was so traumatized he shook from then on. The dog was ruined; so the gamekeeper shot the dog and beat the two boys. He knew that he’d let the dog down, that he’d failed to protect him from his sons, but he couldn’t repair the damage and he couldn’t afford to keep a dog as a pet. I was horrified; the dog’s death seemed so meaningless. But that was the reality of the world in which I grew up.
My grandfather—Gordon Ellis, my mother’s father—taught me everything I knew. He was sixty-seven when I was born, but he and my grandmother, Rose, brought me up, and although my mother lived in the cottage with us, it seemed to me as a child that she was never there. As a result, I felt far closer to my grandparents than I ever did to my mother.
The truth, I discovered when I went back to Norfolk very recently, after years of being away, is that she was simply always out earning our keep. She was up and out of the house in the mornings, often before dawn, to work in the fields—long hard days of back-breaking drudgery for very little money. She would be collected by a gangmaster who drove her and the other women of the village to whatever farm had need of labor. Sometimes they might drive for an hour or two to the other side of the county to harvest peas or potatoes or soft fruit, whichever the season dictated, and be delivered home at the end of the day, exhausted. After a meal she would go straight to bed. If she didn’t work, she didn’t get paid and we struggled. As a single mother, she had no alternative.
I didn’t realize as a child just how unremittingly hard her life was; I didn’t appreciate what she did for me—and how I wish I had. All I knew was she wasn’t there and my grandparents were. My grandfather was my hero. He was gentle, wise, and wonderful, and if he had asked me to walk over hot coals, I would have done it for him without even asking why. He was a thin, wiry man, his face weather-beaten. His hands were gnarled and leathery from decades of hard, manual work, but inside he was a true gentleman and I reveled in every moment spent by his side.
